Holiday House Parties (2 page)

“You
are
daft! I don't even know the lass.”

“But you know me, don't you? All you need do is tell her what a fine fellow I am.”

“Fine fellow?” Geordie sneered. “What I ought to do is tell her she's saved hersel' from weddin' a fool!”

“Please, Geordie! It won't be hard for you to convince her she's made a mistake. Everyone says you've a silver tongue. And that Scottish burr of yours is the perfect addition. It makes you sound so … so
sincere
. I've seen how the ladies flock round you when you speak. That's how I know you're certain to win over my Caroline.”

Geordie rose to his feet. “Archie Halford, gi'e owre! Silver tongue, indeed. I can barely speak the King's English! Never have I heard so wanwytted—idiotic—a scheme!”

“You speak the King's English perfectly, and you know it. You only throw in your Lowlands brogue to remind us where you come from,” Archie accused.

“How I speak has nothin' to do with it,” Geordie retorted. “The whole idea is too silly to discuss.”

“What's silly about it? Can't a fellow speak up for his friend? After all, what are friends for?”

“I never heard that interferin' with a man's romantic problems was a requirement for friendship,” Geordie declared, striding to the door.

Archie rose from his seat and followed. “Geordie,
please
—” he begged.

Geordie stopped in his tracks and looked back at his friend with a glower. “Anyone with a thocht—a grain—of sense knows better than to entangle himself in his friends' affairs of the heart. If ye want to win yer lass back again, Archie, me lad, ye'll have to do it yersel'! Under no circumstances will I have anything to do with it!”

But Archie was not one to be easily put off. “Let's draw for it,” he said, catching Geordie's arm and keeping him from leaving.

“Gi'e owre, laddie,” Geordie said, pulling his arm free. “I winna be coaxed—”

“My roan against a mere quarter-hour visit with the lady,” Archie persisted.

“Yer
roan
?” Geordie turned in the doorway in disbelief. “The thoroughbred roan ye just had from Tattersall's? That one?”

“What other roan do I have?”

Geordie gaped at his friend. “Y're worse than daft—y're fair loony!”

“I'm desperate, that's what I am.” Archie pulled a deck of cards from the pocket of his wrinkled coat and riffled them. “One draw. What do you say?”

“The roan against fifteen minutes with yer lass?” He shook his head and rolled his eyes heavenward. “May the good Lord forgive me … cut the cards!”

2

Two hours later George David McAusland, Lord Dunvegan, was on his way to pay a call on Miss Caroline Woolcott. It was not that he'd changed his mind about the foolishness of interfering in another man's love affairs. It was merely that he'd drawn a six, and Archie had drawn a Queen.

He was full of glum self-disgust as he strode down the street toward the residence of the unknown Miss Caroline Woolcott. His enjoyment of gambling was beginning to seem like a dangerous dissipation. Ever since he'd come to England, “Laird Geordie” had indulged himself in all the debauchery available to young men of wealth and leisure. It suddenly occurred to him to wonder what was happening to his character. Was he going to sink into the mire of debauchery like so many of his London friends?

Although he considered himself every inch a Scotsman, he'd been forced to live in England since 1811. Banished by his father to England to “get a bit o' civilizin',” he'd been living away from his beloved Scotland for the better part of six years, four spent at Oxford and the last two in London to acquire “town bronze.” In the six years, he'd made many friends among the dissipated Corinthian set, had lost much of his Scottish burr, and had developed a taste for gambling and lightskirts. None of this would have pleased his father, who, fortunately, had no notion of how his son was spending his time and fortune.

As Geordie approached the Woolcott residence, he cursed himself under his breath for having been a “maggotty wanwyt.” It was surely witless to have accepted Archie's wager. It was a fool's wager. But how could Geordie have been expected to resist it? Archie's roan was a thoroughbred!

He'd lost, and it served him right. He was indulging himself too much in the profligacy of London life. Just last week he'd lost at faro more in one evening than his rented house cost for a year, he'd run up a bill for spirits last month higher than his father would spend on drink in a decade, and he was permitting the opera dancer he'd taken to his bed a few times to become much too expensive in her demands. Some might call this town bronze; his father, he was sure, would call it debauchery.

In truth, he would be glad to see his banishment end. He was delighted that his father had given him permission to go home to Scotland next month at Christmastime. Once he got there, he intended to convince his father that he'd been civilized enough. If he could persuade his father to let him stay home, he would put an end to his gambling and wenching and settle down to a sane and proper life.

Meanwhile, however, there was the problem of what to say to the beautiful Miss Woolcott, at whose house he'd now arrived. He knocked hesitantly at her door, rehearsing in his mind the points that Archie had suggested he make to the lady. “Tell her that I'm a catch,” Archie'd said. “Tell her Archibald Halford is a man of loyalty, faithfulness, with a kind disposition and an easygoing, generous nature.…”

But before Geordie could fully review the list of Archie's assets, the butler came to the door. Geordie handed the fellow his card. The butler studied the card, eyed Geordie suspiciously, studied the card again, and frowned. “You are Lord Dunvegan?” he asked.

“I am.”

“You've called to see Sir Horace Woolcott, I expect. I'm sorry to have to inform you, my lord, that Sir Horace passed to his reward last year.”

“It's Miss Woolcott I've come to see,” Geordie explained.

“Oh?” The butler raised his brows. “Is Miss Woolcott expecting you?”

Geordie, not accustomed to being kept waiting about on doorsteps, felt his temper snap. “Wheesht, man, y're a pawky one. Just gi'e the lass the card. Let her ask the questions.”

The butler, recognizing a voice of authority even when dressed in a Scottish brogue, admitted him, placed his card on a salver, and asked Geordie to wait in the library. It was not a long wait. Geordie had barely time to study the room—a highceilinged chamber with tall windows and book-laden shelves climbing to the rafters—before the butler returned. “Miss Woolcott will see you in the study, my lord,” he murmured, and he led the visitor down a long hallway to the very last door. “Lord Dunvegan,” he announced, and stood aside.

Geordie crossed the threshold and stopped short. As the butler discreetly took his leave, Geordie gaped at the young woman rising from behind a desk. She was not at all what he expected. She was certainly not a beauty. His impression was rather that of a schoolmarm than a pretty girl. Small and rather thin, her hair that Archie had so glowingly described was pulled severely back from her face in a tight bun, her supposedly golden brown eyes with their “unbelievable lashes” were hidden behind a pair of large spectacles, and her gown, with its high neck, severe white collar, and long sleeves, did not hide the fact that her figure was almost flat. In Scotland she would never be called sonsy. Only her mouth, ripe and cherry red, lived up to Archie's besotted description.

“Lord Dunvegan?” she was asking as she came round the desk.

“Yes, ma'am. But I fear I've interrupted ye in your work.”

“That's quite all right. I'd almost finished for the day. If, as I suspect, you were acquainted with my father, you've probably guessed I'm trying to finish his translation of the
Antigone
.” She studied his face carefully—blinking in a puzzled way at the wild red hair and boyish face—before putting out her hand. “You
were
an acquaintance of father's, were you not?” she asked dubiously.

“No, ma'am,” he said, taking her hand and bowing over it. “I'm a friend of Sir Archibald Halford.”

She stiffened. “Of Archie's?” She removed her fingers from his grasp and peered at him through her spectacles even more closely. Then her brow cleared. “Oh, I see. I suppose he wants his letters back.”

“Letters?”

“He only wrote three or four.” She went back to the desk and rummaged through a drawer. “I don't know why I saved them. They aren't very good. He can barely spell.”

He laughed. “I've never heard that poor spellin' is a reason for jiltin' a lad, ma'am,” he said, following Archie's suggestion that he use his Scottish brogue to its fullest melodious effect.

She looked up at him sharply. “What did you say?”

“I said, Miss Woolcott, that I never heard of spellin' bein' a qualification for wedlock.” He grinned at her in what he hoped was a disarming manner, but she responded with a forbidding frown. He shrugged. “Ah, well, I suppose it wasna worth repeatin'.”

“No, it wasn't,” she said icily. “Here are the letters. Take them, please, and go.”

“I dinna come for any letters, ma'am. I came to talk to ye aboot yer feelin's for Archie.”

“Did you, indeed?” The girl drew herself up to her full height. “That's a bit high-handed, is it not? You and I are not even acquainted.”

“No, ma'am, we aren't. But I know Archie well, and I can assure ye that there isn't a finer fellow in all of London.”

“Can you, indeed?”

“Yes, ma'am, I can. I truly believe that any lass would be fortunate to have such a fine fellow for her husband.”

“Do you, indeed?”

Geordie paused and cocked his head at her. “Indeed, ma'am, it seems y're indeedin' me a thocht too many indeeds. Are ye meanin' somethin' special by them?”

“Indeed I am. They mean that I don't care for your presumption, my lord.”

“Presumption?”

“Yes, presumption. That's the proper word, I think, for the interference of a stranger who accosts me in my own home and presumes to advise me whom to marry.”

Geordie was not surprised at the girl's show of irritation. He hadn't expected this interview to be easy. But since he considered himself adept at dealing with the moods and whims of females, he was not discomposed. Besides, he owed Archie fifteen minutes of sincere effort, and fifteen minutes Archie would get. “I'm sorry, ma'am,” he murmured contritely, “but how can ye say I accosted ye?”

“Perhaps you didn't accost me, exactly, but you did come in under false pretenses, did ye not? I was under the impression you were a scholar, come to discuss my father's writings.”

“I never claimed to be a scholar, Miss Woolcott.”

“That's true,” she admitted. “I should have known at once that someone with your boyish demeanor and wild hair could not be—but never mind. Just go, Lord Dunvegan. I have nothing to say to you.”

“As you wish, ma'am,” he murmured, lowering his eyes and moving a few steps toward the door. “I only wanted to help Archie understand ye, ye see. Archie is such a good sort. And he does love ye, lass. Fair sairy he is since ye returned his ring.”

The girl's eyebrows lifted. “Fair sairy?” she asked.

“It means wretched. Very wretched.” He threw her another of his disarming smiles. “'Tis a Scottish phrase. I dinna seem able to keep the Lallans from my tongue, I fear.”

“I think you are fully aware that your accent is charming,” Miss Woolcott said frankly. She took off her spectacles and eyed him coldly. “But I'm afraid I'm not easily swayed by charm. You said you were going, did you not? Then I bid you good evening.”

Geordie felt a wave of irritation. This was an icy, sharp-tongued female if ever there was one. What on earth did Archie see in her? Except for her eyes, of course. Archie had been right about her eyes. They were rather remarkable, the brown of her irises streaked with little glints of gold. And her lashes were, as Archie had said, unbelievably long and dark. But behind those eyes she had the nature of a shrew.

He would have liked to turn on his heel and walk out without another word, but he couldn't, in good conscience, take his leave yet. He estimated that not more than ten minutes had elapsed since this conversation began. He owed Archie five more minutes. That was the bargain. He had to try again. “Then ye have no kind word I can bring to the poor lad?” he asked with all the sincerity he could muster. “Ye offer him no hope at all?”

“None at all.” She waved her hand dismissively at him. “Goodbye, Lord Dunvegan.”

“I don't understand ye,” he said, holding his ground. “Surely ye took him in the first place because ye recognized his fine qualities—his loyalty, his faithfulness, his generosity, his easygoing nature. What could have happened in a mere sennicht—a mere week—to cause ye to change yer mind?”

Something in his tone must have made her capitulate a little, for she lowered her eyes and sighed. “If you must know, my lord, I broke our troth because I realized I'd been hasty in accepting him. Yes, Archie is all you say he is. But I discovered, to my dismay, that he is a member of the Corinthian set, to which you, too, appear to belong. I do not approve of that set, I'm afraid.”

“Oh? And why not, Miss Woolcott?”

“Because, among other disturbing things, they gamble.”

“Gamble, ma'am? Is that so sinful?”

“I find it so. When I discovered Archie's gambling, I felt strong misgivings about him.”

“But, ma'am, I and all the men I know, Corinthians or not, play at cards or roll the dice now and then.”

“I don't doubt it.” She eyed him with utter disdain. “It doesn't surprise me a bit to learn that Archie's friends are worse than he.”